"I know what they are," the daughter said, as a column of burly, black-clad storm troopers wearing XXL helmets stomped across the surface of the moon. "I saw them on CBBC. They're winos."

"Really?" I asked, surprised, because it sounded a bit heavy for children's television. Even on Doctor Who, where one sees every kind of alien imaginable, I don't recall any of them actually being drunk. Plus, they were marching in impressively straight lines.

I used to write for Radio Times, where comments like that would immediately produce a sack of letters giving precise episode details of intoxicated extra-terrestrials. Now I come to think of it, Anne Reid's Plasmavore Gran was getting giddy at the prospect of drinking a consultant's Burgundy-rich blood. However, I'm confident Press readers have better things to write in about.

(Here's a suggestion: wasn't the proposed new super-pool the parties in the local elections are all scrapping over going to be at Oaklands now, not Heslington? And what exactly is the deal with Kent Street? If the site's too small for a community pool, why was it ever presented as an option in the first place?) Anyway, back to the winos, which turned out to be rhinos - or, rather, Judoon, before any Doctor Who fans pick up their pens. The misunderstanding arose because the daughter has a slight speech impediment that renders her unable to pronounce her Rs', despite my best efforts at coaching.

Sometimes, I make her say "Around the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran", or, if I'm feeling really mischievous, "Release Roger", after the Pontius Pilate scene in Life Of Brian.

Nothing works. The dentist says she has incompetent lips' - a technical term, apparently, though I bet she won't be telling her boyfriends that in years to come - but I don't know if that makes a difference.

Still, Jonathan Ross has built a career on pronouncing his Rs' as Ws' so it's quite wok 'n' woll these days. Unless she becomes a vet, that is, in which case saying wabbit' is going to make her sound like Elmer Fudd.

Anyway, what with the new series of Doctor Who, followed by Any Dream Will Do, Andrew Lloyd Webber's search for a Joseph, our Saturday nights are blocked-booked for the foreseeable future.

The daughter has been on her knees ever since, singing Close Every Door To Me and making me do the harmonies during bath-time. I suppose it makes a change from torturing the neighbours with our brass instruments.

In an effort to encourage her singing, I booked her in to Giving Voice, a workshop run by Bandstrand. By the end of the day she was belting out tunes, doing backing vocals, performing complicated rounds and had written a rap song (make that a wap song) about a busking hamster.

It was all very impressive and, at £5 for an all-day session (free to families on income support), an absolute bargain. We booked it through School's Out, the activities brochure that comes out every school holiday, which is - or ought to be - every York parent's bible.

For all that I am sometimes critical of our council, they provide really well for our young people. This week, as well as the singing, the daughter has played table tennis for a pound at Oaklands and done a First Aid course and multi-sports at Huntingdon School all-weather pitch. Next week we're planning to play badminton (£1), get some tennis coaching at Glen Gardens (free) and have booked on to the Robin Hood Adventure in Rowntree Park (also free).

In between dashing off to activities, there are play dates with her friends. One of these took on a bizarre virtual turn when she and a pal sat in the same room but on different computers and logged on to Club Penguin, a chat room for kids.

"Can't you play outside?" I sighed, as they cavorted round cyberspace together, clubbing at the penguin disco and making pink-iced pizzas (this was after I'd chucked them off the PS2, where they'd been spent hours virtual skateboarding.) "Mu-um! This is much more fun," the daughter groaned. I made them mash potatoes and stir the gravy for tea to ground them in the real world again.

I'd love it if she could just knock about outside like we used to do as kids, but I don't feel it's safe. Luckily, we have Rowntree Park on our doorstep, which is everyone's back garden around here and a home from home for us.

Years ago it used to have a popular open-air swimming pool, which the Press printed some old photos of recently, showing swim-suited girls sunbathing on the lido.

Which brings me back, albeit circuitously, to York's need for a city-centre pool. Expect to hear it discussed a lot before May 3. And ask questions.